In the end we all become stories.
That doesn’t mean that the stories are true.
It doesn’t mean that the stories accurately reflect you.
And when the last person that knew you dies your story fades…
Until the last person that they shared pieces of you with then dies
And so on until your story evaporates into the ether.
I remember you
but through rose-colored glasses
you, only better
and with my last breath
I hope someone remembers
a much better me